Heavy the Head
by quirkette
Summary: If all it took was a heated argument, Spanish Flu, or a world war, it would have happened years ago. So just what would it take for Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes to admit that they have feelings for each other?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Notes:_

Set in S3 ep 5. Title comes from the common misquotation of Shakespeare's Henry IV, Part II, Act III, Scene I: 'Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown' (not to argue with the bard himself but I'm a sucker for alliteration :D).

This story was inspired by my favourite Janeway/Chakotay fanfiction: Filling the Void by Spiletta42 [If you're interested, you can read that awesome story here: www dot spiletta dot com/void1 dot html ].

I _may_ have smudged the timeline a bit in regards to when Ivy, James, and Alfred started working at Downton (Were they around in S3? I can't remember)?

I'm no Julian Fellowes, but I hope that the characters are, at least, recognizable.

Don't sue, yada, yada. Okay, enough rambling. Enjoy!

* * *

One o' clock never sat well with Elsie – when she was foolish enough to see it through. The stillness of the house made her restless, allowed her mind to wander onto topics usually kept off limits by the perpetually busy Mrs. Hughes. She had thought (hoped) that the bottle of red liquid secreted in her bedside cabinet would help numb her mind, ease her into the land of nod. It hadn't. If anything it had made her worse, broken down barriers that stood so tall and formidable during the day. Now she couldn't stop thinking about it- about him.

Pulling the sheets over her head Elsie let out a long, frustrated sigh. She could feel her mind re-winding, like a film reel, back through the last few awkward days of avoidance (on both their parts, if she wasn't mistaken), to one of the darkest days Downton had seen, the day they had almost... well.

* * *

After delivering the news, Mr. Carson had retreated to his pantry in silence. Elsie had followed. There was no one else to turn to. Sure, she could hug Daisy, console Anna, comfort the men with words like 'heaven' and 'faith', but none of them were permitted to do the same for her. It went against the chain of command somehow. As housekeeper, _she_ had to be the pillar of strength- always Mrs. Hughes, always in control. So, when the initial shock had faded and the first wave of tears had dried, she left, slipping down the corridor and into his pantry.

There had been no need to knock. Mr. Carson had left the door open for her, as she would have for him. He must have heard the whisper of her skirts against the flooring though, because as she passed under the doorframe, he turned.

He had looked so broken, so completely lost in that moment that Elsie had found herself moving closer, reaching out to (heaven's forbid) touch him.

Warm. And smooth. Her hand had slid over the back of his with barely a hint of friction… it felt right there, resting on top of his. So she had been greedy – raising her other hand to join the first. Mr. Carson didn't seem to mind. Slowly, like the sinking sun, a large hand had settled on top of hers, curling their fingers together.

They stood like that for some time, his warmth seeping into her skin. No words were spoken; there was nothing to be said. Lady Sybil, sweet innocent Lady Sybil… gone to meet her Maker before her parents – before her grandmother even. It wasn't the natural order of things. It wasn't right.

Struggling against a sudden salt-water stinging in her eyes, Elsie bowed her head and tried to focus her blurring vision on something solid, dependable, on hands, his and hers, knitted together, clutched desperately tight. Despite her teasing when he needed to be taken down a peg or two (or three or four), despite his blustering and often insensitive remarks, their relationship always came back to this – they looked out for each other. It was a comforting (and terrifying) thought but she was starting to accept that it was just the way things were.

Mr. Carson's hand twitched, twice. And then he sniffled. And he swallowed. Elsie kept her gaze focused on their hands, his and hers, smoothing her thumb over his knuckles in a way that she hoped was soothing. She so rarely had skin to skin contact with another human being that she wasn't quite sure what to do. He had a small crescent shaped scar between his first and second knuckles. The tip of her finger ghosted over it, fascinated by the raised edge.

Mr. Carson sniffed again, wetly. He was shuddering, she knew, but she didn't dare look up. He'd never forgive himself for an emotional outburst. Sobs were forcing their way up her throat too, wracking her body, but Elsie stayed silent, staring at the scar hidden between his knuckles.

Lady Sybil had always been her favourite.

And then… tears – his, hers, she wasn't sure. But they were crying, both of them, sobbing quietly in the middle of his pantry over their clasped hands, because of the war, because of Lady Sybil, because of the waste...

Eventually, tears slowed. He regained composure first. Elsie shied away, couldn't stand to have Mr. Carson, impeccable Butler of Downton Abbey, look at her, all puffy red eyes and runny nose. Besides, what right did she have to cry when his time at Downton far surpassed hers, when he considered the Crawley's to be his surrogate family? She had felt foolish, tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let her, was stroking her hand like it was made of the finest china. _How long had he been doing that?_

"Mrs-" He swallowed thickly, deep baritone catching in his throat. "Elsie."

Nobody called her by that name that anymore. It was like a secret only she knew. Her eyes left their hands, travelling in inches over the buttons on his livery, past his collar, over the dip and swell of his Adam's apple, to meet his watery gaze. He raised a hand as if to wipe away the last of her traitorous tears. "May I?"

She hesitated then gave a small nod, trying not to lean into his touch as he smoothed the wet beads across her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

"There," he rumbled, clasping her hands once more when he was finished.

Sure that he could feel her pulse pounding away under his thick fingers, Elsie bit her lip. "Thank you, Mr- Ch…"

She trailed off. He was staring at her mouth. She flushed, fingers involuntarily twitching against his. They were standing entirely too close for comfort, invading each other's personal space, practically breathing each other's air…

Footsteps in the corridor.

"Mr. Carson? Mrs. Hughes?"

Hands separated, snapping back to their sides. They stepped apart guiltily, like a pair of courting teenagers discovered without a chaperone. It was absurd, it was frustrating-

It was Thomas. They were needed in the kitchen.

Caught between bitter relief and sweet disappointment, Elise felt her spine straighten. Emotions were locked back into their tight little box, tear tracks re-wiped away. Beside her, Mr. Carson smoothed out the lines on his face. Duty called and they answered. Always.

* * *

Elsie rolled over, trying and failing to get comfortable. Her candle had burnt itself out but she could still reach out and touch the wall that separated her attic room from his. Cold. This late night was his fault. And the night before that. And the night before that. And the sherry. Elsie blamed Charles Carson and his damn hands. And the way he had murmured her name… Charles.

No. Not Charles. Mr. Carson. That was his name after all – not Charles, never Charles. Not to her. Not even alone, in her room, late at night, after a large sherry.

Mr. Carson.

It was all Mr. Carson's fault.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Thank you for all your kind reviews. Know that they are all deeply appreciated. I hope you like the next chapter! :)

Unbetaed. All mistakes mine.

* * *

It was her damn hands, he decided, after tossing and turning in bed for the third night in a row. They were so much smaller than his – capable of course, but ever so small. And cold. He hadn't expected that, not with her fiery temper. Then again, he hadn't expected Lady Sybil to… to…

Charles reached for the handkerchief he had taken to keeping under his pillow. He was still prone to the odd… moment when he was alone. By day it was easier; he was too busy being strong for the family to think about anything else. Charles couldn't imagine what Lord and Lady Grantham were going through, or Mr- or _Tom_ for that matter. Lady Sybil was supposed to be embracing motherhood, getting acquainted with her little one – not lying in a velvet lined coffin. Life had stopped making sense.

He had done his duty, of course, and been the bearer of bad news. It had been the worst moment of his career to date but he had done it… Charles let his mind wander over the events of that day again, too tired to stop the memories from flooding back and overwhelming him. Again.

* * *

Bursting. That had been the only word for it. The servants' hall was so full to the top with joy that it was bursting out into the surrounding corridors. Charles could hear the piano before he reached the bottom of the stairs. Thomas was playing, he could tell - a rare occurrence since William's untimely departure. Quiet cat steps took Charles to the threshold of the servant's hall, where he had hesitated for longer than he should have.

Daisy was teaching Ivy, James and Alfred the steps to some new-fangled dance. Mr. Mosley looked on, half amused, half jealous, turning pages for Thomas. They were laughing; all of them, over a joke that Charles had only caught the end of. Mr. Bates kept time with his stick, prodding Alfred occasionally when his top-line dropped. At the table, O'Brian and Anna had abandoned their sewing for a game of cards: Mrs Patmore was dealing them in with her tongue caught between her teeth.

Charles knew that he needed to intervene, to put an end to the joviality, but as Thomas's playing reached a crescendo his will to do so faltered. They were all so happy...

"Mr. Carson – do try to look a bit more cheerful."

He turned to find Mrs. Hughes, cheeks still flushed from her glass of wine (curtsy of Lord Grantham), smiling up at him. When he didn't move, didn't reply, concern washed away her smile. "What's wrong?"

Charles shook his head and stepped passed her, into the room. He knew he didn't have it in him to say it twice.

Thirty seconds later, the piano fell silent.

Daisy broke first, tears spilling down her perpetually pale cheeks. The rest of the women, and quite a few of the men, had followed her lead. Charles envied them for that. He had been… numb. Lady Sybil – sweet, innocent Lady Sybil, who had pulled at his nose with chubby five-year-old fingers and solemnly informed him that he had 'halfway hair' – gone.

He had left then, giving his subordinates the space to grieve properly. No one wanted an old, over-bearing Butler breathing down their necks when they were trying to mourn. But apparently Mrs Hughes had. She sought him out not ten minutes after he fled the servant's hall, soft skirts swishing about her ankles. As she entered his parlour, he had turned and looked at her, really looked at her, taken note of the threads of grey appearing in her hair, the unshed tears. And yet she had moved first: coming to a stop by his side, reaching out to touch him, giving, always giving.

Strangely, the sensation of her skin against his had eased the hollow ache in his chest, just a little. He wasn't alone in his suffering and that was a comforting thought. Charles raised a hand to cover hers.

The tops of Mrs. Hughes' hands were as cold as the undersides but somehow he was melting; he could feel the hot burn of tears too long held in check. Mrs. Hughes shuddered and bit her lip. He sniffed. They were at the moment of release, the point of no return, a mutual breaking point, when he decided that he no longer cared about propriety and clasped her hands tighter, marvelling at how small and white and perfect they were.

And then… tears – his, hers, he wasn't sure. But they were crying, both of them, sobbing in the middle of his pantry over their clasped hands because of the war, because of Lady Sybil, because of missed chances.

He had quieted first – not that either of them had been particularly loud. Slowly, like a gentle shower, Mrs. Hughes' sobs eased and her breathing evened out. She was embarrassed. He could tell from the way she wasn't looking at him. So when she tried to pull her hands away he wouldn't let her. He was stroking her hand, trying to sooth the frightened fluttering of her pulse. She looked so sad, so broken.

"Mrs-" The title stuck in his throat, strangely formal for two friends crying over joined hands. "Elsie…"

Hesitantly her eyes left their hands, traveled up his chest, to lock with his. He lifted a hand towards her tear-stained cheeks. "May I?"

She paused before nodding, just the once. It was enough. Charles got to work immediately, swiping the last few tears from her cheeks, chasing away the wet trails they left behind. He couldn't bear to see her so sad. "There," he rumbled, pleased with his handiwork.

Then Elsie swallowed… and bit her lip… and he was lost. She must have said something but he barely noticed, focused purely on the bite of her small white teeth against her lower lip. A flush crept up Elsie's neck. Her fingers twitched. They were standing entirely too close for comfort, invading each other's personal space. Charles could see flecks of gold in her eyes, could feel her sweet breath fanning his face. He began to wonder what would happen if he leaned forward, just that little bit…

Footsteps in the corridor.

"Mr. Carson? Mrs. Hughes?"

The moment shattered. Hands separated, snapping back to their sides. They stepped apart guilty, though no crime had been committed. It was absurd, it was frustrating-

It was Thomas. They were needed in the kitchen.

Later, side by side they had doled out black armbands to the staff in silence. Charles hadn't seen her for the rest of the day. Well, they had both been busy making changes to wardrobes and menus and wine selections, not to mention the family's scheduled parties. However, he hadn't really seen much of her the last few days either… Or in the evenings. Not that he could deny spending an extra few minutes tidying his desk that afternoon when he heard Mrs. Hughes berating one of the maids in the corridor – but that was because he knew she had things covered... Wasn't it?

Flipping the pillow over to avoid the soggy patch, Charles closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. It would do no good to dwell on matters. And tomorrow would be a long day indeed if he failed to get enough sleep.

He had no idea that on the other side of the wall, Mrs Hughes was thinking the exact same thing.


End file.
